


Fire in the Water

by Bouncey



Series: To Carry Your Marks [8]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Almost Major Character Death (Almost), Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anti-Witcher Sentiments, Cute Ending, Everyone Gets Hurt a Little but Everyone Lives, Feral Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Feralt, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, I typed 'feralt' on accident and yeah that works, Jaskier Whump Week (The Witcher), M/M, Near Death, Poison, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Religious Fanaticism, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:08:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25564093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bouncey/pseuds/Bouncey
Summary: “My Flower is beautiful, ” Jaskier snarled. His own life be damned, he wouldn’t let this bitch say such things about Geralt. He struggled to sit up but found it incredibly difficult; his limbs were leaden and his head was swimming. “How dare you talk about him like that!”“Lie back and close your eyes, poor wretched thing. Death will come for you soon. Then you shall be cleansed of your sins and given to a Beloved who is pure and true.”“Geralt will rescue me,” Jaskier wheezed. He could feel the strange heaviness in his arms and legs intensifying, now. Something dark and terrible swirled dangerously in his gut. The edges of his vision were going black and hazy. His skin was burning hot but every breath he took seemed to stab ice into his chest. He couldn’t keep his tongue steady enough to speak without slurring his words “Ger’lt alw’as s’ves me.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: To Carry Your Marks [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1807651
Comments: 24
Kudos: 557





	Fire in the Water

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all really said "kick the shit out of the bard" in my poll so...here you go.
> 
> My contribution to Jaskier whump week 2020 and also some Geralt whump in there (as a treat). 
> 
> Just to keep you guys in suspense, I have 3 new stories getting posted soon (hopefully this week). Keep an eye out for chapter one of my Little Red Riding Hood multichapter fic! And for a frat house AU featuring the Kaer Morhen boys! 
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Title from "Fire in the Water" by Feist (give it a listen, it's a great vibe for this story)

_He looks ethereal,_ Geralt thought. _Like a nymph or a spriggan._

The bard was maybe twenty paces away with his back to the Witcher, sitting cross-legged with his shoulders hunched; he was focused on hurriedly finishing a crown of wildflowers. The deepening orange hue of the setting sun reflected against the gold marks on Jaskier’s skin, glinting in little flashes as his hands moved. His hair had grown during their travels, nearly brushing the tops of his shoulders when he bent his head _just so_ or leaned back to gaze up at the darkening sky. Suddenly the Witcher’s Beloved screwed his eyelids tightly shut and burst into rhyme: “Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight; I wish I may, I wish I might have the wish I wish tonight.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes and moved closer on instinct. Rhymes from the bard weren’t unusual but they very rarely interrupted him when he was already busy with something else. “What was that for? Have you been suddenly cursed?”

“No?” It was both a statement and a question. One of those long, slender fingers pointed to the sky, “I was wishing on a star.”

Geralt’s blank look nearly broke the bard’s heart in two. _Every child should be taught about wishing on stars. Witchers or not. This is a godsdamned tragedy and I_ will _be having words with Vesemir come autumn._

“How do you do that?”

Oh, Jaskier was _definitely_ having a chat with Vesemir about healthy childhood development when winter came again. The bard smiled as he fixed the flower crown atop Geralt’s head. “Look up into the sky and whichever star you see first, keep looking at it. Then you say the rhyme out loud, close your eyes, and make a wish in your mind. You can’t tell anyone what you wished for, though, or it won’t come true.”

“Seems simple enough.” The Witcher cast his gaze to the sky and let it settle on the first speck of light that caught his attention. “Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight; I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight.” 

“Now close your eyes and make your wish.”

Geralt slid his eyelids closed and focused all his energy on that singular star: _I wish for Jaskier to never be hurt again._

There was probably a reason Witchers weren’t taught to wish on stars.

“Fucking hells,” Jaskier gasped, eyes filling with tears as soon as they opened again. “What did you do to me, Geralt? This feels worse than any hangover I’d ever had; and I’ve had liquor brewed by your father.”

“You’ve been poisoned.”

That wasn’t his Flower’s voice. His eyes snapped in the direction of the voice’s owner, already full of suspicion. An unfamiliar woman sat on the edge of his equally unfamiliar cot. She held an empty crystal vial in one of her thin, pale hands. Her dark hair was piled into a disastrous bun on the very top of her head and her plain woolen dress was torn and wrinkled. Jaskier’s heart was beating wildly in his chest but he tried to sound as calm as possible under the circumstances. “Why have I been poisoned? By whom? What kind of poison?”

“Are all of you so curious?”

“What are you talking about? What do you mean by ‘all of you’?”

“I’ve seen the gilded dandelions printed all over your skin. They are blasphemous; unlike any marks I’ve ever seen before in my life. I know that you must belong to someone either damned or cursed. I want to know if all of you disgusting, mis-marked creatures are so curious about why you must be killed.”

“Disgusting creatures?”

“Your soul bond is malformed. Your Beloved is impure.”

“My Flower is _beautiful,_ ” Jaskier snarled. His own life be damned, he wouldn’t let this bitch say such things about Geralt. He struggled to sit up but found it incredibly difficult; his limbs were leaden and his head was swimming. “How dare you talk about him like that!”

“Lie back and close your eyes, poor wretched thing. Death will come for you soon. Then you shall be cleansed of your sins and given to a Beloved who is pure and true.”

“Geralt will rescue me,” Jaskier wheezed. He could feel the strange heaviness in his arms and legs intensifying, now. Something dark and terrible swirled dangerously in his gut. The edges of his vision were going black and hazy. His skin was burning hot but every breath he took seemed to stab ice into his chest. He couldn’t keep his tongue steady enough to speak without slurring his words “Ger’lt alw’as s’ves me.”

“Shhh,” she brushed her fingertips over his eyelids to close them. He didn’t have the energy to open them again. “Pass along to a better life now, broken little songbird.”

Jaskier didn’t want to die. He wanted to spend a thousand long years with Geralt. He wanted to stay _here_ in this lifetime and follow the Path until Death came for him naturally. Until Death came for him and Geralt together, as it should always be. As it was _meant_ to be. 

The dying bard took some comfort in knowing that this unbreakable bond would continue into their next existence even if he didn’t remember this one. At least he’d have Geralt again, someday. In one form or another. Perhaps the roles would be reversed and he could save his Witcher...although it wouldn’t be _his Witcher_ anymore. It would be someone or something else entirely. He didn’t like that. He still had so many poems to write and ballads to compose. Geralt’s praise had to be sung and he was the only one who could do it properly. 

The fire rocketed up his spine and overtook his rational mind, then. There was nothing but the licking flames in his stomach and the inky darkness behind his closed eyelids. There was nothing but silence as Jaskier began to take his final breaths.

Geralt was frantic.

Jaskier had disappeared from the inn without a trace.

The barkeep hadn’t seen him leave and neither had either of the stablehands he’d entrusted Roach with earlier. His Beloved hadn’t left a note like usual and his lute had still been propped up against the leg of the bed frame, polishing cloth resting atop his half-open pack when Geralt returned to their room. The Witcher didn’t see any signs of a struggle but he did smell an unfamiliar floral perfume in the air. It reminded him of the smoke he’d seen leaking from some abandoned temple at the edge of - 

_Fuck._

Geralt felt that oddly primal presence at the back of his mind again. It was itching to be given complete control. He knew that turning himself over to those animalistic instincts would be the fastest way to find Jaskier again but he also knew that this same presence had driven him to hunt down and nearly kill his own adopted _brothers_ in a fit of protective rage. He knew this side of him was somehow sharper and more focused than his conscious mind could ever be; he was very tempted to let the predatory force inside him take over and guide him to his Beloved. He tried not to give in entirely, but a little bit of the Wolf managed to slip through the cracks.

“He’s mine,” the Witcher snarled to no one in particular. It felt good to say the words aloud; it made them feel more real and concrete. He liked that. Geralt repeated himself just to hear the words again: “He’s _mine_.”

Geralt followed the perfume’s trail out of the inn and down the road to the forest. It led him all the way to the back entrance of a dilapidated stone temple, hidden by the forest’s thick and heavy foliage. Jaskier’s rainy springtime scent was hanging in the air but it was fading fast. _That meant…_

“Beloved!” Geralt shouted down the empty stone hallway. Sensing no traps and lacking any more patience, the Witcher took off at a sprint. He let a little more of that predatory force seep into his mind, allowing it to lead him into a small side room far from the temple’s central room and altar. Whoever had captured the bard had hidden him somewhere inconsequential on purpose. They didn't want him to make it in time. They didn't want him to save Jaskier. They wanted his bard _dead._ Geralt wouldn't allow it.

He reached the tiny room at last, only to find Jaskier laying on the surface of a rotting wooden table. He'd been positioned at the center of an otherwise empty stone chamber, somewhere near the middle of the sagging temple. He wasn’t moving and Geralt could barely hear the slow thudding of his heart. His chest rose and fell with shuddering, barely-there breaths.

Jaskier was _dying_. 

Geralt rushed to his Beloved’s side but his hands fluttered uselessly over Jaskier’s chest, unsure of what to do. He wasn’t usually the one doing the bandaging. He wasn’t usually the one bringing his darling back from the brink of death. _He_ was the one who faced the possibility of danger at every turn, not Jaskier. Never Jaskier. His panicked amber eyes scanned the bard’s body but found very little by way of injuries. There were no burn marks on his skin, no welts from a whip, no incisions or puncture wounds or other physical ailments. Nothing Geralt could soothe or fix right away. No hint as to what could be killing him. 

The Witcher leaned low over his Beloved, finally letting that primal being take over his consciousness completely and guide his actions. He pressed his nose to the spot behind Jaskier’s ear, where the bard's scent was always strongest, and breathed deeply. It only took him a split second to realize what was wrong. _Poison._ It was right there, an unkillable enemy beneath the surface of the bard’s skin. There was nothing Geralt could do to stop it. He wasn’t even sure what Jaskier had been poisoned with or if it even had an antidote _._ “Fucking hells, Beloved. I’ll save you. I’ll keep you safe, I swear it.”

It was an empty promise. 

Geralt knew that.

He knew there was nothing he could do to save his darling Jaskier now. The sun was about to go dark on the Witcher’s entire world. Forever. He realized with no small amount of horror that the dazzlingly blue flower on his knuckle, the first mark Jaskier had ever given him, was beginning to fade. The edges were turning a foreboding shade of grey and the darkness was spreading slowly inward. Geralt shook his hand back and forth as if that would dislodge the reality of his sweet songbird’s impending doom. “No! This can’t be happening. Wake up, Jaskier. Please, Beloved, it’s me. I’m here. Please Jaskier, _I can’t live without you!_ ”

It was all too much for the Witcher to contain any longer. A loud, inhuman sound burst forth from his lungs and echoed through the nearly empty temple. It wasn’t a howl and it wasn’t a scream but it encompassed the most heart-wrenching parts of both. The volume of the cry tore at his throat until it was raw. He leaned down to look more closely at Jaskier while he still could. To memorize the way his heartbeat sounded; as faint as it was becoming. Tears poured from his eyes and splashed like raindrops onto the bard’s smooth, peaceful face. _I’ll never smell another oncoming rainstorm without thinking of this beautiful man. I’ll never see another flower blooming in spring without missing this bard with all my heart._ Geralt caressed his Beloved’s cheek and flinched at just how cold his skin truly was.

Jaskier was not far from Death’s door, now. 

One of the Witcher’s tears fell against his Beloved's barely parted lips and rolled into his mouth. The salty droplet hit the bard’s tongue and made its way backwards. It slid down his throat and began to do something rather magical as it went.

Geralt didn’t notice a thing.

He cried himself out in a matter of seconds and simply stood, red-faced and brokenhearted, at the side of his Beloved’s deathbed. He took one of Jaskier’s soft hands in one of his and rubbed gentle circles on the back of it with his thumb. The bard had always loved when Geralt touched him unprompted. It didn’t have to be a lusty touch, either. Jaskier loved to be petted and caressed and kissed gently even more than he loved it when his Witcher soulmate tossed him out of harm’s way or manhandled him up the stairs after a particularly rowdy performance. 

Geralt nearly jumped when his moment of sad contemplation was interrupted by a strange voice from the doorway. “You must be this poor creature’s Beloved, then. I thought I heard you shouting.” The woman had a small but rather sharp looking knife in her hand and her eyes were narrowed to slits in anger. “You’re ruining my plans for him, Witcher.”

“Jaskier is _mine_ ,” the predatory creature possessing Geralt snarled viciously. “You can’t have him. _Death_ can’t have him. He belongs to _me._ ”

“Not even monster slayers like you can fight Death,” she smirked. “It is a well known fact that Witchers cannot cry, and only tears could have saved this poor deformed thing's life.”

Geralt would have pounced on her for calling Jaskier a _deformed thing_ but he had more important questions for her. “What do you mean, only tears could have saved him?” 

“The only antidote to the poison I gave him is a single tear from his soulmate and as I said before, Witchers cannot cry. Sad, isn’t it, that the monster I unleashed in your darling bard is the only kind you cannot kill?”

“You’re wrong,” came a third voice. The words sounded scratchy and tired but Geralt hadn’t heard a sweeter sentence in all his many years. His gaze snapped to the table where his Beloved was still lying. Jaskier’s familiar blue eyes had never shone more beautifully than in this moment. Geralt glanced down at the joint of his hand and grinned when he saw that the bluebell had returned to full color. The animal in his mind retreated slightly once it knew that Jaskier was safe for now. “Geralt can cry. He can even shed tears when he feels the need. He just doesn’t do it very often because he thinks all good Witchers must be stoic and strong and _incredibly_ broody.”

“Beloved!”

“Flower,” the bard sighed. His short speech had wearied him entirely too quickly. “I’m so tired.”

“You nearly died.”

“You _will_ die, songbird! I will purify your soul and sever this unholy bond!” The woman charged forward, brandishing her knife as if the puny blade would make any difference at all. Geralt made quick work of the deranged smalltown priestess, knocking her out with the hilt of his dagger and letting her body drop to the floor like a pile of last week’s dirty laundry. He looked down to Jaskier, whose eyes were fluttering closed again. 

“Don’t go to sleep yet, Beloved,” he urged. The panicked thing in his head returned full force, slamming Geralt’s rational mind to the ground and stomping on it. “We need to get you back to town.”

“I can’t sit up. I can’t move. I-”

“Shh, my sweet lark,” the Witcher murmured. The little voice said _soothe, protect, care for_ and Geralt listened. “Let me take a turn coddling you this time.”

“Usually when people steal me out from under your nose they just demand a ransom,” the bard joked weakly. “Not that we have any money.”

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to protect you again, Beloved. How did this happen?”

“You can’t protect me all the time, Geralt, so don’t start blaming yourself for this before we’re even back in town. Don’t even think about brooding all afternoon, either. I expect to be wrapped in a warm blanket and _cuddled_. I did almost die, you know.”

“I know.”

Jaskier wasn’t sure he’d actually heard the crack in Geralt’s voice. It was unnerving to see his usually grim and grouchy Witcher so terrified. So lost. Usually that was the bard’s job. He used what little strength he had left in his body to pat his Flower’s stubbly cheek with the palm of his hand. “But I’m alive. You saved me.”

“I always will.”

Geralt wrapped one arm around Jaskier’s lower back and hooked the other beneath his knees, lifting him easily into his arms. They’d already paid for two nights at the inn and this was their first. The bard certainly wouldn’t be performing, but Geralt didn’t give a wyvern's left tit about lost coin. Not when he could have lost his Beloved. 

  
Jaskier didn't leave their shitty rented bed for the rest of their stay in town. His Flower wouldn't let him. If he was hungry then Geralt brought him food. If he was cold then Geralt tucked him in tighter and spooned his backside. The Witcher had even paid for a bath and washed the dirt, sweat, and temple smoke from his hair with those strong, lovely fingers. There would be no getting away from the careful gaze of his darling for many days to come and Jaskier couldn't bring himself to mind it at all. He was alive and he was determined to stay that way.   
  


That's the way it was supposed to be. The two of them, together. Always.

**Author's Note:**

> Toss reviews to your author, oh Archive of plenty!
> 
> (pretty please)


End file.
